


the talon of a hawk

by wanderNavi



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe, Older Robin, Plegian Robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22397521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderNavi/pseuds/wanderNavi
Summary: Amidst the rising tension between Ylisse and Plegia, Robin’s mother dies during childbirth. By age fifteen, Robin’s an orphan of her own making and one of Plegia’s most popular generals.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	the talon of a hawk

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to take this ["Chaucer meme”](https://anghraine.tumblr.com/post/145320294168/chaucer-meme) on a spin. The fic is split into seven sections, each comprising of seven sentences. Basically, I’ve been given free reign to inflict horrible things on the English language a la run-on sentences. 
> 
> Happy birthday, me, you inglorious bastard.

Her uncle Lexander finds Robin sitting stiffly by the tiny window of her room, hands still clenched tight around the bloody sword she refuses to let go of even five hours after she stabbed it through the chest of the fourth tutor she’s similarly dispatched. The key difference between this time and the last three was the more resigned air to the screaming as hot liquid spilled onto her face and the speed of her strikes, spurred on by the heavy gaze in her audience – the gaze of assessing, royal eyes.

“The king wishes to speak to you,” he says, then, “and you’ll damage the blade if you don’t clean it.”

She glances at him through the haze of what hangs unsaid – her father’s fury only grows when forced to stew in silence by his highness’ presence, the whole of the Grimleal will fight tooth and claw before releasing her from the halls she’s held prisoner in all her life, the kingdom can’t continue wasting talented men to her ire while Ylisse pushes through ever widening holes in the home army’s defenses.

Turning her face back to the sliver of sunset, she asks, “What could the king possibly want from a ten-year-old?”

“You will not speak of the king in that way,” Lexander snaps, “not when he’s offering to train you besides the crown prince’s elites at the front lines.”

Robin flings the sword down and knocks the chair to the ground in an explosion of haste and squirms impatiently as he catches her and scrubs at the dried blood coating her with his sleeve the best he can.

* * *

Complicated expression on his face notwithstanding, General Mustafa takes Robin under his wing in all her pampered, feral dragon vessel glory and tosses her headfirst into skirmishes and barrack life. In the beginning, the men assume the unfamiliarity of mess tents and sandy mud everywhere and daily coarse chaos – so different from the immaculate halls of the Grimleal’s temple and the fearful worship attending to her every needs – would send her into insufferable tantrums; her first battle, where she lops off a pikeman’s arm in quick succession to gutting an enemy swordsman swiftly corrects these fears, to all the soldiers’ relief.

They find drunk Robin, plied with the rotgut free-flowing through the camp, the height of hilarity, especially when she still manages to swindle everyone at cards and attempts to wrestle the crown prince’s far more sober guards; she flings herself into spars and into conversations to the troops’ mixed delight; she badgers everyone about their family and interests outside the fighting.

Three months on the march – four months since the king took her away from a tight-lipped Validar, two months since Robin proved herself proficiently deadly with swords and spells books in the midst of the screams and fire and blood of recapturing a castle town – the crown prince listens to Robin ramble about battle formations with a considering expression, then clasps her on the shoulder and steers her into the next strategy meeting. She makes mistakes, of course she does, but soon tides begin to turn and casualties among Plegia’s forces begin to fall.

Mustafa brings her in his wake while surveying a battlefield before and after a fight, into field hospitals tents to rally the wounded, and slowly at his side, Robin learns to care for Dmitri and the ten billion dogs he has at home, Yasha and his hoard of siblings running roughshod over his aggrieved parents and aunts, Aliyah and her gardens of herbs probably overtaken by weeds by now, and William and Nedra and Cleo and many more of the troops.

Robin swiftly rises through the ranks and kills to bring as many as her soldiers home as she can.

* * *

By the time Robin’s fourteen, she gains a reputation: a demon to her enemies, a savior to her people. Both the king and Mustafa look the other way when the Grimleal coincidentally collapses during one of Robin’s rare leaves from the frontline and she returns to her troops a fortnight later an orphan. They’re all far more preoccupied with the greater priority of ending Exalt Phillip’s war once and for all; who cares about a failed cult plotting an amateur coup when the enemy’s back is to the wall and all the more dangerous for it?

A month and a half before her fifteenth birthday, Robin has the honors of riding to battle, general of her loyal regiment, and clashing swords with the Exalt herself.

A well clears out in the fighting around them, both of their horses long struck down, and they dance; magic singes his right arm, Falchion shatters two of her swords, a shard of metal nearly slices her throat, lightning spears the meat of his thigh. A stray arrow sings over her head, forcing the Exalt to evade and sets him off balance. Her lance of lightning slams through his heart in the same instant Falchion rips out her right eye.

* * *

The dead Exalt’s eldest is five years Robin’s junior and lets the world know her deep distain for war and violence the instant the crown touches her brow. Robin watches the peace talks brokered between the crown prince and the little Exalt’s diplomats with bemusement while she carts herself to all corners of Plegia, seeing her men home and offering condolences to the families of the fallen she fails to bring back alive.

Mustafa catches up to her at the port town of Macar, largely untouched by the destruction at the eastern front, and bustles her off to visit his family. His wife – “call me Aunt Dunyazad, please” – holds her hostage until she’s been stuffed to bursting with sweet dates and rolls of bread and meats and vegetables and Robin pleads surrender.

“You’re returning to the capital?” Mustafa asks in surprise while Robin flings darts irritably trying to learn how to compensate for her reduced depth of vision.

“Crown Prince Duban wants to step back from army affairs and someone has to help be his liaison while the king teaches him the rest of his courtly duties,” she says.

When he amusedly says, “Oh, so this has nothing to do with how you somehow have all the army’s undying loyalty and how you’ll be dueling anyone that turns your precious officer corps into a political corruption machine?” Robin only gives him the dismissive grunt it deserves.

* * *

“I commend Lord Otto’s bravery for suggesting a suitable husband be found for you,” Crown Prince – soon to be King – Duban says and playfully bats away Robin’s half-hearted swipe in offense.

“There’s no time for me to get married yet,” Robin says redundantly; both of their hands are full with the upcoming coronation and incessant trade talks interrupted at every turn by internal wars and political instability among the other countries. Robin’s all but ready to give up on establishing anything long-lasting with Ferox since no one will allow her to march in and beat some sense into the Khans herself.

He muses, “Who even could?”

Who even could indeed; Robin killed her way to this position, has the scars and missing eye to prove it, never mind the brand on her bare right hand and an annihilated cult in the dust behind her who alleged during her youth that her mother, name never spoken, died during childbirth.

“Concentrate,” she chides him.

With a light-hearted grumble about respecting older cousins – in spirit – Duban returns to addressing petitions while Robin turns back to her spies’ reports and her officers’ troop evaluations.

* * *

Robin eyes the sword at the hip of Ylisse’s little prince with dull amusement; it’s the first she’s seen of it in over a decade and the years of peace since haven’t marred its edge. The boy eyes her back warily taking in the freckles over her skin, her diminutive height, the plain cloth of her eyepatch and Robin can see the moment his expectations built on rumored assumptions collides headfirst with reality.

Stepping forward to bring the Ylissian entourage to a temporary halt, Robin addresses the Exalt, “Your Excellency, I must ask that as formal guests, you and your party surrender all weapons for the duration of the negotiations, excluding supervised bodyguards.”

The group tenses and more than a few eyes fly to the fables sword and the two swords by Robin’s own side while she watches each minute twitch and blink from the Exalt with unwavering intensity as she replies, maintaining likewise eye contact, “We’ll be entrusting ourselves to your care.”

“Yes,” Robin says. “If you want any assistance with your petition to interfere in Valm’s matters, despite the unnecessary harms it will bring to Plegia, you will be; but remember your position in bringing this bargain before us, for we find a single king easier to negotiate with than a federation of lords.”

* * *

Conversation with the vessel of the Fell Dragon is more enjoyable than Tiki ever anticipated, even despite the steel of her armor and weapons and the army at her command, waiting at the base of the Mila Tree, prepared to continue the invasions they’ve been invited to partake.

Tiki manages to entice the general into staying through sunset, when gold spills molten over the land for legions laid out for the viewing from the tree’s lofty crown – far off rivers and lakes, dull mountains and hills, lush forests and plains.

“Once long ago, the kingdoms of Plegia and Ylisse were one,” the Hawk General says, “but now we draw our borders along mountains and seas, splitting the land in half, separating the woods and fields of the east from the mines and ports of the west. Plegia’s managed to thrive with its coffers full thanks to our trade across the oceans; King Duban’s still not fully convinced the rewards we’ll reap from this campaign are worth our costs, Ylisse’s debt and subservience to us or not.”

“Eliminating the Grimleal has done your kingdom innumerable good too.” At Robin’s surprised glance, Tiki says, “Naga can peek at different futures, general, and there are paths to life far divergent from yours. General Robin, know that we are much appreciative of your presence here.”

“Fine,” Robin says curtly, for no matter what world, what destiny, what past, Robin’s life is one of war and in each turn she delivers overwhelming victory to the ones controlling her calloused hands.

**Author's Note:**

> This is playing a riff on a much more fleshed-out and plotted AU, but hell if I know if I’ll be able to get around to writing that story.


End file.
